


This Old Ghost Town

by rascal (orphan_account)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5049799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/rascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Awkward hipster embarrassment. Also: would you smooch a ghost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Sister named this Chapter Owen Wilson

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello what's up!  
> This is my first fanfic in, like, fifteen years.  
> Make of that what you will.  
> ❤︎

You wake up.

It's 10 AM.

It's the first of the month. 

Shit. 

While the Nespresso (a Christmas gift you were tempted to re-gift before you found yourself utterly dependant on it) summons coffee, you slip your rent cheque into a fireproof document folder.

Your new landlord is _literally on fire_ so the fireproof document folder has become a necessity. Same apartment, new regime.

Others might be uncomfortable with the prospect of a combustible landlord, but you were elated to live in such a historically significant time and area.

For hundreds of years, the world was without magic thanks to shitty old-timey people. No longer was this the case. The curtain was pulled, the barrier shattered, right in time for one of the many projected apocalypse dates favoured by new age weirdoes.

December 21, 2012.

The world didn't end but it did change, irreversibly.

You were a weird kid, prone to reading books on Monster-era History instead of The Babysitter's Club or whatever the other kids were reading. Growing up so close to Mt Ebbot, you'd developed a deep appreciation for the local history and a fascination for the arcane.

Magic was real again, and your neighbourhood, once a haven for artists trying to "make it" and counterculture types, now seemed to be a safe haven for Monsters.

No complaints here. It's really cool. Delightfully friendly monsters beat out gentrification any day.

Coffee happens, and you pop upstairs to slide the rent cheque under the landlord's office door. It's uneventful. Everyone else in the world, or at least the very small apartment building, must be at work. You are, but today, work is home.

Your sister runs a food truck, so she's usually out of the house during the day. When it's really busy, you help run the food truck part-time. The other part of the time, you manage its finicky paperwork, marketing, and social media, all of which with a lot of help from Google. The money isn't great, but it pays the rent on your moderately spacious apartment in a heritage (pest-ridden and drafty and lacking in elevators) building and you don't have a shitty boss (you are your own shitty boss.)

Life's okay.

It's time to do some hardcore tweeting and accounting, so you put your current favourite song on repeat way too high and get to it. Your current favourite song is by Mettaton, one of the lovely things the Monsters brought up with them.

Mettaton's so great, in a weird, like, robo-Klaus Nomi way. He seems like he'd be a handful to deal with in person but he did a show with his ghost-and-cute-girl-monster band at a venue your friends like and you swear he looked _right at yo_ u.

Your heart skipped a beat even though you have _zero_ interest in him. He's that good.


	2. If the first chapter is Owen Wilson logic follows the second chapter would be Luke WIlson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gross hipster embarrassment

Hardcore accounting and tweeting lasts about forty minutes before you get a spam phone call offering you a cruise to Tahiti or whatever, cutting off the constant stream of Mettaton.

In the absence of music, you hear what you think is someone whining _about_ the absence of music. You don’t want to disappoint, so you turn it back on.

Work continues at a snail’s pace, until you receive a small flurry of text messages from your sister.

>  
> 
> **dUDE**
> 
> **Can u bring some Sriracha?**
> 
> **pls**
> 
> **now**
> 
> **The little skeleton ate it all ლ(●ↀωↀ●)ლ**
> 
> **He is nice so it’s OK**
> 
>  

She’s right, the little skeleton _is_ nice, and it’s nice to see him stray from his usual request of ketchup.

Music off again, you get up and lazily stroll over to the food truck’s condiment cupboard- an IKEA bookcase with doors- and grab one of the several bottles of sriracha stored within.

You text her back:

 

> **OMW ┗(^o^　)┓三**
> 
> **did he make a shitty joke**
> 
> **did u write it down**
> 
> **w/e there in 15**

 

The little skeleton makes a bad joke every day. You and your sister have taken to archiving them. They’re delightfully terrible. He’s the best customer.  You don’t make him pay any more because he is a delight and never wants actual food. He leaves good tips. He must have a name, but you’ve passed the point where you can ask his name without it being weird.

You throw on some actual pants and your favourite worn-but-not-disgusting sneakers and mosey on out, Sriracha in hand, to find Metta-fucking-ton casually leaning in the apartment across the hall’s door, back to you.

At least, you think it’s Mettaton, as what other metallic statuesque glam rock idols _are_ there mulling around these days?

You drop your keys, as that is a completely reasonable reaction to inexplicably being a few feet away from Mettaton while having just blasted Mettaton for probably an hour and a half while also -shit- wearing a Mettaton t-shirt. Even your youth full of waiting hours in line for autographs at comic conventions could not prepare you for such an embarrassing incident.

You hastily shove your way back into your apartment as Mettaton says something that might have been “Oh, darling, let me help you with that.” but you’re probably hearing things and your face is burning and your ears pounding from embarrassment.

You text your sister back.

 

> **CAN’T COME METTATON’S OUTSIDE**
> 
> **!!(ﾉ*ﾟДﾟ)ﾉ**
> 
> **!!(ﾉ*ﾟДﾟ)ﾉ**
> 
> **!!(ﾉ*ﾟДﾟ)ﾉ**

 

You pace around the living room for lack of anything better to do.

Your phone lights up with a text in response.

 

> **Mettaton?!**
> 
> **Like, the rectangle from TV?**
> 
> **Who is sometimes David Bowie?**
> 
>  

A pause.

 

> **Get him to sign your tits?**

 

Great. Some help you are.

 

> **I will only accept tardiness if he signs your tits.**

 

Oh, okay.

Cool.

Your sister is a _traitor_ who does not understand the grave, embarrassing nature of the situation.

There is a knock at the door and your stomach jumps.

“Darling,” you hear “(something something) your keys.”

Well, there’s no way out of this.

You swallow what little pride you have and gingerly open the door, well aware you are probably still tomato-red.

Yep. That is definitely Mettaton.

“I know I’m stunning, but there’s no need to be alarmed,” he says, managing to be at once entirely full of himself and graceful and gentle. He must have practice, dealing with fans regularly.

You manage to choke out a “Thanks,” as Mettaton places the keys in your hand, his other hand gently grasping your hand from below: for a moment your hand is completely enveloped in his hands. They’re less chilly than you would expect. This is weird, but if you were a teenage Monster you would be losing your shit.

“Anything for a fan,” he says.

He glances down at your shirt and grins. “You were at my show last month,” he says, then over his shoulder “Blooky! She was at our show last month!” He’s elated, probably, to be catching on with a human audience.

“well that’s nice…” says the most unfathomably subdued voice behind Mettaton. You cock your head to see who ‘Blooky’ is and briefly lock eyes with the most painfully adorable child’s drawing of a ghost made staticky-real.  ‘Blooky’ is evidently shy as heck, as he? she? they? quickly flutter out of sight, mumbling something about checking on snails?

Mettaton sighs. “Sorry,” he says. “Blooky is a little shy. I’m glad they have a fan so close by--you watch out for them when I’m not here, all right, darling?”

“Uh, sure,” you say. "Yeah."

You loosely wave the bottle of Sriracha. "I gotta deliver this, though, so...thanks."

This is super weird. Somehow you escape.

You’re only half an hour late to deliver the Sriracha. The lunch rush is over.

 


	3. Bill Murray is also often in Wes Anderson films...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> snails are notoriously apathetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, hi everyone, thanks for reading!  
> It's been a loooooong time since I've been any kind of active in a fandom, (like...back when the Series of Unfortunate Events movie came out!) so this is real cool.   
> Love y'all xoxo

The first thing your sister asks upon your untimely arrival is "Did he sign your tits?"

You briefly consider flipping her off, but scrunch your face and stick your tongue out instead. "No. He held my hand though? It was weird."

"Sell your hand on eBay."

You snort. "He was actually kind of sweet," you say. "That cute little ghost in his band lives across from us- I guess that's why he was there?"

"I guess that explains the wailing at night sometimes," your sister says. "Is that just a thing ghosts do, or is it a very sad ghost?"

"It could be either. They seemed pretty mopey. Or shy?" You wipe down a counter that does not need wiping to keep your hands busy. The food truck is cozy- the kind of cozy that is a euphemism for claustrophobic and cramped- but you're proud of its slick colour scheme and growing popularity.

The rest of the day goes without incident: chatting up customers while your sister cooks, describing Mettaton's artfully sculpted ass (scribbled on the back of a receipt for emphasis), and laughing at your own awkwardness. At dusk, you and your sister pack up for the night and head home.

Your sister unlocks the door, as you are done with keys for the day. As she enters the apartment, you find yourself almost tripping over a large snail.

This is strange because you're indoors.

The door of the apartment across the hall is open a sliver. 

Didn't the ghost- Blue Key?- say something about snails?

"Dude, just a sec," you say, but your sister is already inside and doesn't really care.

You crouch to better observe the snail. It's big, and its shell is unnaturally red. It seems to be unaware or uncaring that you're looking at it, and continues to scoot away, quicker than you would imagine a snail could be. (But your scope of experience with snails is limited to a foggy childhood memory of a fence covered in snails on a family vacation, that one Crispin Glover art film, and trying hard not to step on them because they’re pretty cute.)

You reach out and grab the snail gently, hand shaking a little in a flutter of slime-apprehension. 

Yep. Slimy.

"All right, little buddy," you say to the snail, slowly rising. "Let's get you home."

The door across from yours is still slightly ajar. You nudge it with your foot, reasoning that it's not trespassing if you aren't touching the doorknob.

The apartment is sparsely furnished. There is nothing to sit on, but there is an abundance of venues to consume media: an outdated TV, a record player, and a computer open to what you think might be Soundcloud, from the layout.

"Um, hey, uh...Blue?" You tread lightly, as if the floor is fragile. You meander over to where the master bedroom would be, judging by your apartment's layout.

The master bedroom contains two kiddie pools and that plastic turtle sandbox everybody with a yard had as a kid. All three have been converted into what appear to be snail habitats, each containing about a dozen snails.

The ghost is peering into the turtle sandbox, their back to you. "where did you go..." They call out, presumably to the absent snail.

You don't want to startle them, so you gently knock on the doorframe with your unsnailed hand. 

"Is it a snail you seek?" You suffer a brief flash of self-disdain. You can’t even say that sounded a lot better in your head. It was just bad.

The ghost turns around, a little startled. Their wide eyes lock on your face, then the snail, then your face again. "oh wow... thank you..." There is very little inflection in their voice, but their words feel sincere.

"Hey, no problem," you say, strolling over to the turtle sandbox. You kneel beside the floating ghost and return the snail to its habitat. You watch the snails for a moment, and ponder. What is this, a... secret snail farm?

You ask the ghost just that: "What is this, a... secret snail farm?"

“it’s the family business…” the ghost says. “i brought them up with me… i couldn’t leave them behind…”

“That’s pretty cool,” you say. “Does the, uh, does the rest of your family live here too?”

“i’m the only one left…” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” You say, unsure of the implications of Blue Key the ghost being the last one left. Can ghosts even die? Is that a thing?

“nobody really needs snails anymore…” they say. “not since we’ve come up here… but somebody has to take care of them…”

You nod. “That’s pretty cool.” You find you’re sitting on the floor now and you’re not sure when that happened. The ghost is about the size of a child, so you’re still pretty close to eye level. 

You notice a couple of Costco-sized boxes of spring mix. 

“What do they eat?” This is a stupid question, as you’re gesturing to the boxes of spring mix and logic follows that that is probably snail food.

“...green things, mostly…” they say. “...i was going to feed them when i realised red was missing....”

“Can I help?” You did promise Mettaton something along the lines of being there for this ghost.

“o-oh...sure… you don’t have to...” they say. You’re not really sure how a ghost manages to pick things up-there are no visible arms- so you grab one of the boxes and get to it.

“Many hands make small work!” You chirp, filling a snail food trough to the brim with greenery.

“...i don’t have hands...but...thank you…”

They don’t have hands, but they seem to be doing fine. It must be levitation or ectoplasm or something.

It doesn’t take long to make sure all snails are fed.

“Is that it?” You ask. “Is there anything else to do?”

“...oh, no… you’ve done so much already...thank you…” Once more, the ghost’s words lack intonation, but they do not lack sincerity.

“No problem.” You say. “I’m gonna head home, but you let me know if you ever need anything, okay?” You pause, but not long enough for the ghost to say anything else. “What was your name, anyway? Mettaton said something like, uh, Blue Key?”

“my name is napstablook…” The ghost says.

Napstablook.


	4. Jason Schwartzman once said he liked my shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahaha hey guys what's uppppppp guess who got a bad cold and slept for a few days????????? (it's me) (THERE IS NO PROBLEM I CAN'T SLEEP AWAY) (sleepin all halloween)

Re-entering your apartment, you find your sister sprawled out on the couch watching Monster public access TV. Mettaton, the rectangle, is on the screen, gesturing flamboyantly with some dogs.

"That took a while," she said.

"Yeah, sorry. I guess the ghost and I hung out for a bit?" You slump on the couch beside her. "I returned the snail, and then helped feed all of the other snails? There's a lot of snails there." You gesticulate. “Like, two kiddy pools, and a sandbox.”

Gesticulating two kiddy pools is remarkably similar to gesticulating boobs, but that doesn’t stop you.

Your sister doesn’t respond, as staring at the flamboyant rectangle on TV is evidently more exciting than you recounting the feeding of snails. You’re not too put out, because, yeah, Mettaton sure is something.

“...I can’t believe you didn’t get him to sign your tits.”

You attempt to throw a pillow at your sister but your aim is basically the worst and you succeed only in knocking over a lamp.

"If he was the rectangle, I would have."

\--

The next morning, you find you cannot fully recall the ghost’s name, no matter how hard you try.

It was, like, Nappyblap or whatever.

You have a hard time with names as is, but you have no frame of reference for monster names. No annoying shits in middle school to sully their names. No celebrities with similar names. (You'd already encountered one horrendous faux pas in forgetting your landlord's name, and the ensuing over-dramatic cry that he would _never forget that you forgot_ fuelled months worth of social anxiety nightmares. You're on okay terms now.)

You sigh and wonder why this is running through you head when you are lying in bed, pretending you never have to wake up.

Regardless, Nappyblap was pretty sweet, if somewhat awkward.

You wonder if you can get away with calling them “Blue Key”, like Mettaton does. Maybe "Naps". That's cute. (Anything to avoid the embarrassment of asking their name once more.)

You also wonder how such a quiet little guy met Mettaton in the first place.

You’re thinking about Mettaton and the mopey ghost entirely too much. What gives? (You probably should have just left the keys with Mettaton and jumped out of your own window yesterday.)

You shuffle out of bed an hour later than the ideal and the morning goes on remarkably uneventfully. You perform your rote morning routine, account for yesterday's sales (hours spent moving numbers from one box to another),  and tweet three photos of food served yesterday (and one of Steve Buscemi.)  This passes with little interruption: not even a bored or busy text from your sister. By early afternoon, you have eaten two thirds of a family size box of Ritz crackers and thoroughly disproved your middle school self's claims that you would never use math outside of school.

The music is kept much quieter today, for fear of lurking Mettatons.

As if cued by that train of thought, there is a knock at your door, accompanied by a singsongy cry of "Daaaaaaaaaaarling!"

Well. Speak of the robot devil.

You find it utterly bizarre that Mettaton, a robot pop star from the depths of the mythic underworld, has suddenly taken interest in you. But you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Also, more importantly, you get the feeling that _he will not leave_.

(Didn't you read a rumour he had heat-seeking missile-eyes? _He knows you're in there_.)

You shuffle towards the door, nearly tripping over the lamp knocked over last night, and cautiously open the door.

"Yoooooo," you say, trailing off just a little too long. Smooth, as ever.

Mettaton is wearing sequin booty shorts (you would later find they had a heart on the ass) and knee high socks with "LET'S" and "ROCK" emblazoned on the sides- you think he must be making acquaintances in the roller derby community, given the crossover in wardrobe choices.

"There you are!" He cries, throwing his arms out like your presence is a surprise.

Yes. There you are. In your home.

"Blooky told me how much fun the two of you had last night," He says. "So I thought-we're all friends now- why not invite you to watch us rehearse this afternoon?”

You get the feeling Mettaton is maybe pushing his favourite Sad Ghost and Weird Stranger Barbie dolls together and maybe making friendship-kissy noises.

"Oh," You say. "Yeah, we, uh, fed snails?" Was that fun? It was all right.

"Mm," Mettaton affirms. "Well," He jerks his head in the opposite direction, his gorgeous fake-ass hair fluttering. "I'm already fashionably late,"

He's not taking no for an answer and this is a pretty sweet deal, actually, so you follow.

Mettaton drives a Tesla with a custom iridescent magenta paint job. You briefly wonder if they-both robot and car- plug into the same charging station and then briefly feel bad for thinking that, because it's kind of a weird thought.

Mettaton drives with the focus and frantic grace of a soccer mom running five minutes late. You try not to stare at him as he drives, but he's a pretty robot from TV, so it's hard. This is all so very unreal.

"Blooky is very shy," he says, eyes not straying from the road. "I worry sometimes they might get lonely.."

You understand how that might be the case: they seem pretty introverted. Maybe even a bit fragile.

Mettaton's eyes shift to glance at you, still facing forward. "They told me the human across the hall had good taste in music,"

You beg to differ, considering the frequency with which shuffle offers you Smash Mouth.

"I'm glad you turned out to be so lovely." Mettaton is turning the car into a nondescript building's parking lot. You're in an industrial neighbourhood now, which makes sense for band practice: no need to worry about noise pollution.

Lovely is not the word you would use to describe yourself, but Mettaton is turning out to be a surprisingly gracious individual.

You hop out of the car and follow Mettaton, making note of the sparkly-ass heart on his sparkly ass. He holds the door open for you and leads you down a hallway that does not have the best lighting.

The practice space is small. Intimate. NapsBlueKey the ghost is there, fussing with computer equipment you don't quite understand. Also waiting is a cute, kind of sad looking fish-type girl, hovering.

"Blooky, Shyren," Mettaton announces, "I've brought a friend!"

You realize that literally no one here knows your name yet. So you say it, preceded by a "Hey everybody, I'm"

You shift your focus to the ghost.

"Hey, Naps," you say, then internally cringe, remembering a drunk co-worker years ago referring to San Pellegrino as 'Naps Magreeno'

"oh wow hi... i didn't know you were coming....you didn't have to...but...you're so nice..." Their wide eyes gloss up- are they crying?

You smile, hoping you come off more as kind and patient than condescending. "I'm excited to see you in action again!"

Naps smiles weakly and floats on upstage, dropping glittery tears. "thank you..."

 


	5. Willem Dafoe: B SQUAD LEADER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,  
> I just want to thank y'all for all the lovely comments and kudos-es and bookmarks and whatnot. Everyone has been so absolutely lovely to me and I am so, so grateful!  
> This is the first time in, like, over a decade that I've written something other than e-commerce copy for work and/or actively participated in a fandom and I was so nervous to start I had my sister hit "post" for me on the first chapter...I was hyperventilating!! :')
> 
> Much love, 
> 
> Your friendly neighbourhood rascal.

Monster band practice is pretty cool and you feel delightfully exclusive. It's like a well-lit intimate concert where you don't have to worry about slipping on anyone's spilled booze and the deranged guy in the jean vest with a DEVO backpatch on it who flails around at every goddamn show in town isn't flailing around.

You find you like their work a lot more than you thought you would. Your initial interest in Mettaton's work was on a purely conceptual level: he's a glambot from hell, what's not to love? But they're great. Catchy. Mettaton was clearly quite literally _made to perform_ and Shyren has a lovely voice.

Naps seems a little nervous, which might just be the norm.

Even though you're just experiencing the same few songs over and over, time flies. You're compulsively checking your phone far less than usual.

You’re having such a good time that when Mettaton signals to stop with his hand and says "Let's call it a night, darlings, I need to recharge." you're disappointed.

Mettaton drives everyone home and you realize your impression of his driving skills being that of a frenzied soccer mom may be truer than you had initially thought, as he vocally insists you all wear seatbelts. The car smells several conflicting flavours of sickly sweet, but there is no air freshener in sight. Mettaton must just emit a tutti frutti miasma.

Naps sits in the back seat with you. They make sure to wear a seatbelt, which they clearly really don't need, and it strikes you as kind of precious. They're staring out the window, so you take the opportunity to watch them.

("Watching" sounds much better than "staring at".)

You compulsively count telephone poles you can see through the ghost's not entirely opaque form and find yourself absently humming one of the songs you heard this afternoon. You don't notice, but Mettaton surveys you and Naps through the rear view mirror and smiles. Then he looks at himself in the rear view mirror and smiles even more.

As the car pulls up to your apartment building, you notice it’s starting to get dark.

“Have fun, you two!” Mettaton cries from the car. You wave and turn to open the apartment building’s door for Naps, who just phases through as you are opening it.

You meander down the apartment building's hallway, a couple of steps behind Naps,

"well..." Naps says as you reach the end of the hall, turning back to glance at you, "good night i guess...."

Hell to the no.

"Hey," you say. "Need help with the snail patrol?"

Despite their constant hovering state, Naps seems to hop. (In shock? Excitement?) "oh...i-if that's what you want..."

"Hell to the yes," You say, following Naps into the barren yet somehow cozy apartment.

"im sorry... i dont have anything to offer you.... i only have snail food...and ghost food..."

You wonder exactly what constitutes ghost food. "Like, Booritos? Booberries?" In the world of shitty awkward jokes, these are clearly a ghost's favourite snack.

This falls flat with the ghost who lacks a sense of humor. Even if it was actually funny, it would have.

You try to shrug it off by laughing (nervously) and exclaiming "Let's get to the snailin'!"

Sometimes you wonder why you ever talk, but Naps seems unfazed by your awkwardness.

Naps opens the fridge and you pull snail food out. You take your fair share of snail food and make way to the snail farm.

“hey guys…” Naps says, evidently to the snails. “i brought a friend again…”

Your stomach jumps at being called a “friend” by this lovely ghost. It somehow feels like a great honour.

You kneel at the turtle sandbox and offer greenery to a particularly large snail with an inexplicable moustache.

The snail takes it happily, and utters “Snail snail,” though you somehow feel gratitude in its Pokemon-esque words.

“thanks for coming by today…” Naps says as you pet a snail.

“It was a really nice time.” You don’t have the heart to tell them you really didn’t have a choice.

You giggle as the snail you are petting, this one inexplicably wearing a suit, creeps up onto your hand.

Naps floats over to you and watches. “oh… he likes you…” they say.

“Glad somebody does,” You shoot back in a fit of casual self-deprecation.

“don’t say that……………………...i like you…………..” Naps says, looking downward.

Your stomach jumps once more. “Thanks dude, you’re pretty cool.” You reply.

There’s a silence, but it’s only minimally awkward.

The snail that has now climbed halfway up your forearm saves the moment by saying “I like you both because you give me food.”

You giggle and offer the snail another bit of greenery, then yawn. You blink just a little too long. Your eyes are sleepy. “Maaaaan, I think I might need to head home.”

“oh…..okay….” Naps says.

Naps escorts you to the door while you promise you’ll do this again some time soon. (“okay………………..good…………..” is Naps’ response, and you hope that means they’re happy about that.)

"G'night, Naps." you say, readying yourself to exit.

But.

You turn around to face them and lean downwards, as they seem to be most comfortable hovering low, around the height of a child, and pull their soft, ectoplasmic form into a gentle hug.

You recall reading once that ectoplasm smelled "like ozone" but you were never sure quite what that meant.

It smells clean, yet sharp, like bleach.

Their tears- looks like they're crying again- burn a little, like acid rain, but you don't want to tell them that and upset them further. You grin and bare it.

Next time you'll wear long sleeves.

  
  



	6. Don't worry, Bill Murray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYBODY PLEASE GO LOOK AT [THIS DRAW](http://toysaurus.tumblr.com/post/133075662728) MY AMAZING FRIEND MADE ABOUT THIS STORY  
> (Also, from that link, you can likely infer what my tumblr may be and follow me if you wish to hear me fret about travel planning and the weird garbage I want to buy on etsy)  
> xoxo

The next few days go by with a disappointing lack of supernatural friendliness. As strange as it is to comprehend, you find you’ve grown rather fond of Mettaton. There is no question at all that you have grown fond of Naps, your very own friendly ghost.

Twice you opened your door with the intent to knock on Naps’ and twice you chickened out.

The third time, instead of approaching the door and failing to knock, you print a relatively harmless Achewood strip ([Philippe was a bee for Halloween!](http://achewood.com/index.php?date=10312003)) and shove it in the door’s mail slot. This disgustingly twee act feels like the right level of non-confrontational for this particular ghost.

Evidently, this particular ghost is feeling far less non-confrontational than you are, because their door creaks open just as your hand brushes against your own doorknob.

“oh...hi…” they say.

You turn around

“you can come in if you want…” they say. “or don’t….that’s okay too…”

“I’d love to,” you say, turning around fully and following Naps through the door.

As you follow Naps deeper into the apartment, your eyes dart around and take in the surroundings. The door to the snail room is closed. There is a plate on the desk beside the computer. On it are translucent bread crusts.

"i didn't have anything for you last time....so...i-i got this for you....." Naps says, presenting a bag of chips.

Emblazoned across the front of the bag is the brand name POPATO CHISPS. It's not a brand you recognize. You wonder if it's a monster brand and are kind of excited to try it. Monster food is supposed to be largely magic-based and thus allegedly dissipates magically after nutrients are absorbed. You wonder if this means it won't go to your thighs.

Has anyone tried to market a monster food fad diet?

"Aw, thanks Naps," you say, taking the bag. They're "fancy snail" flavour: definitely a monster brand.

You open the bag of popato chisps- "fancy snail" smells a lot like sour cream and onion- and stroll over to a shelving unit half-full of records.

There is a bafflingly wide and varied range of artists and genres on the shelves. The ghost has  a voracious appetite for music. You run your fingers gently over a row of records and land on one, pulling it out. A familiar viking is on the cover.

“Oh, hey, Moondog.” You say. “Bird’s Lament gets me every time.” You hum a bit of the tune.

Naps hops a little- you take this to be their signifier of excitement.  “i knew you had good taste in music…” they say. “sometimes you play it real loud and i like to listen…”

As Naps talks, you cautiously munch a fancy snail popato chisp and find that, yes, fancy snail is much like sour cream and onion, with a bit of a ...rubbery undertone? For some reason, you can’t stop eating them.

“Aw, man, sorry,” you say. “I guess I’m a little inconsiderate at times, huh?”

“no!” Naps says, faster and with more conviction than anything you’ve ever heard them say before. “i-it’s nice… i like to listen to music with you...even if you aren’t in the same room…”

Your heart jumps a little at such a lovely sentiment. “We can listen to music in the same room, too,” you say. “Y’know, some time. Or whatever.” You don’t want to come on too strong.

There is a pause, which you use to devour more fancy snail.

“...we... could listen to music now…” Naps says.

“Oh,” you say. “Yeah! Why don’t you play me some of your stuff?”

Naps looks nervous. “are you sure… we can just listen to the one you’re holding on to…”

You want to understand them better and what better way than through their work? “Naw,” You say, trying to play it as inoffensive as possible. “I want to hear what you do without Mettaton.”

“okay…” Naps says, making their way to their computer. They fuss with it a little bit, then turn back to you.

“you’ll...you’ll keep lying down as long as you don’t get up.” Naps says and flashes their rare but sweet emoticon-looking smile before adjusting their hovering position to be floor-adjacent.

You think that may have been their attempt at a joke. You smile back. Sure. Lying down. It’s not like there’s any furniture.

You lie on your back beside Naps, hands clasped behind your head, listening.

The ghost's music sounds like cutesy Halloween sound effects. It's charming and a little weird. This whole situation is charming and a little weird: a tender moment with a sweet little ghost because their glam rock robot bandmate told you to care for them in his absence.

It feels weird, but not bad.

If they had a hand you’d hold it.

 

 


	7. Interlude: The Man Who Speaks In Sans (Ed Norton?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I know, no blue key sad ghost? What is DEAL. So we get a 2-for-1 today.  
> Okay, look, I just wanted to use the phrase “The Man Who Speaks In Sans”, you know?  
> Sans does something I'd always wanted to do when I worked retail.

Let’s talk about your sister for a bit.

To the casual observer, it appears she does all of the heavy lifting in your small business. This is not the case.

The two of you worked hard to put her through culinary school. The food truck was borne of your absurd credit card limit (that’s what you get for paying your bills on time!) and an impulse purchase of a takoyaki grill from Amazon.

“What if,” you said, trying to shove cornbread batter and taco meat into the grill, “we just made exclusively spherical food?”

She loved that plan, even if your taco-takoyaki was not the best possible execution of that concept.

So, your sister works magic with food and with people and you work magic with numbers and promotion and making sure things run so flawlessly that even your sister has no idea they could work anything less than perfect. You’re a good team.

There has been a sharp upturn in business recently- your sister is unsure if it is due to word of mouth or due to your hard work marketing, but it is both welcome and frustrating. Sometimes she wants to call you for help, but somebody’s got to do weird math numbers shit and make sure there’s food to cook with and, apparently, volunteer part-time at an organic snail farm.

So she’s taken on help, and she is starting to regret it a bit.

The catboy- “They called me Burgerpants at my old job,” he said at the start of his interview- was indeed a hard worker but had some personality issues that needed to be sorted out. There was some immense psychic damage lying shallow under his greasy fur.

This damage is evident in how he deals with some situations at work, like when the little skeleton came by for his standard ketchup pick-me-up.

Your sister had learned that the little skeleton's name was Sans. She'd made sure to write his name down for future reference and sometimes wrote it on his cup like a Starbucks barista.

She's definitely better at names than you are.

“Do you ever actually eat anything other than ketchup?” The catboy asks, exasperated. “Even back at the hotel, that’s all you ever asked for.”

“sure,” Sans says, then winks. With great effort (tiptoes!) he reaches to a stack of receipts on the counter, and grabs the topmost receipt.

He stuffs the receipt in his mouth.

The catboy grits his teeth.

Sans chews exaggeratedly and this is the first time your sister can recall ever seeing his mouth open- not that’s she’s actually been looking our for it.

Burgerpants’ paws are clenched in frustration. He huffs as Sans makes an exaggerated swallowing motion- Sans’ pantomime skills are top notch, your sister notes.

“mmmm, delicious.” Sans says, overenthusiastic.

The catboy dies a little more on the inside. “I’m taking a smoke break,” he says, devoid of emotion.

“Sure!” your sister chirps, waving. The moment the catboy storms out of sight, she bursts out in laughter at Sans, who performs an uncharacteristically elegant mock bow.

“That was amazing,” your sister says through her wave of laughter.

Sans shrugs. “i do what i can,” he says, grinning as ever.

He fumbles with something in his hoodie’s pocket.

“hey, uh,” he says, the glittering individual stars residing in the unnaturally deep void of his eye sockets shifting downwards.

“Yeah?” You sister responds.

Stars shift back up to make eye contact. “this isn’t, like, a thing or anything, but,”

Your sister cocks her head, unsure of what to make of this.

“you busy tonight?”


	8. Ideally, this is all narrated by Alec Baldwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2-for-1 deal part 2!! Back to blue key sad ghost!!!

 

It is on the twenty-first of the month, marking three weeks since you first encountered Mettaton, that you return home from a Costco run to a sickly sweet odor hanging in the air and an envelope shoved in your door's mail slot.

You decide to put off putting away groceries, an act of admittedly poor judgment as there are frozen things present, and opt to investigate the mystery envelope that is not quite a mystery as you have recently gained a sweet-smelling stalker-friend.

The envelope is blank but inside is a brief note and a single ticket, stuck to the note with a novelty heart-shaped paperclip.

The note is on painfully cute, obviously Hello Kitty-inspired stationery with soft pastel clouds and a simplified-cutesy rectangular Mettaton on it, written in metallic pink gel pen.

It reads:

 

> Darling,
> 
> Please do come to our secret show tonight.
> 
> Blooky would love to see you there ♥
> 
> MTT

 

The "i"s are dotted with hearts, and the signature looks more a meticulously practiced autograph than a casual friend signing off.

You're not one to turn down a free show, and you're eager to see your spooky friend in action again.

You glance at your phone to get an idea of what time it is. 5:48 PM. According to the ticket, the doors open in a bit over an hour. Wary of transit delays, you decide to head out promptly.

You look in the mirror at your face-shaped face and your hair-coloured hair and that nose you were never really fond of and wonder why you’re trying so hard to impress a literal child’s drawing of a ghost.

You bite your cheek and swallow the creeping suspicion that you have feelings about this ghost, pull on your jacket, and leave.

The venue is one you're familiar with. It's intimate without being claustrophobic, and usually pretty chill (aside from the time you watched somebody throw a bottle of beer at the opening band and laughed. Sorry, Fidlar.)

An enormous hand-monster waves you in and inside you find it's busy, but not too busy.

You weave through the small crowd, cringing internally as you remember that you hate going to these sort of things if you don’t know anyone there. Usually, you bring a posse, but Mettaton invited you and you alone.

You are immediately relieved to find a face that is familiar, albeit skeletal, leaning on the venue’s bar, a glass containing what could be confused for a Bloody Mary in hand. You know better.

You raise your hand in a half-wave. "Hey!" You say, then pause. Time to be brave. "I never actually got your name."

"hey," He says. "it's sans." Okay. Sanz.

Sanz the skeleton.

“Like Horatio Sanz.” You say. (Why.)

“sure.” It's entirely possible he can’t actually hear what you’re saying over the roar of monster teen girls. Thank god.

You shuffle in a little closer. "I didn't expect to see you here!" You say.

"mettaton and i go way back. i used to do comedy shows at his hotel."

"Oh!" You exclaim. Did Mettaton have a hotel himself, or was it a hotel he had a permanent spot at, like Penn & Teller at the Rio in Las Vegas? Either way, cool. "That's...really cool." You fiddle with the zipper on your jacket.

Don't look at your phone.

(Don't look at your phone.)

"Mettaton invited me," You say. "I've been hanging out with the ghost in his band a lot."

"oh," Sanz says. "right, yeah, you're napstablook's friend."

You curse the ambient noise for once more foiling your chance at understanding Naps' full name. (Nap Stab Luke?)

"My reputation precedes me." You say.

Sanz laughs. "something like that." He says, pausing to sip from his glass of red. "your sister's here,"

"Oh?"

The lights of his eyes shift to the left."i thought she could use a break,” He says. “and it turns out, she gets on great with my brother,” he gestures to the merchandise booth, where a skeleton of considerably less Danny Devito-esque proportions is flailing- actually flailing- his ivory arms over t-shirts. Your sister gently pats the other skeleton’s shoulder- is he wearing a crop-top with pauldrons?

You squint: he is wearing a crop-top with pauldrons, which is some next level fashion shit.

"Thanks for bringing her, Sanz," you say. "I've been feeling kind of guilty. We used to hang out all the time, but recently, I've mostly been tending the snail farm."

"that's one hell of a euphemism," Thanks, Sanz.

He winks.

Your face is warm.

Oh god, you're blushing.

The warmth in your face throbs to the beat of the music that is finally starting. "I'ma get up there," you say, taking the easy escape. You wave good-bye to Horatio Sanz the skeleton and mosey on.

As you shuffle your way to the stage, you pass a girl in a sweatshirt with "I ♥ NAPSTABLOOK" puff-painted on it. You are torn between the relief of finally knowing their full name and jealousy because, no, it is you who ♥ Napstablook.

The jealousy gnaws at you and you feel kind of ridiculous. No way you're harboring feelings for a friendly ghost. This is getting absurd.

No. They're special to you. You just can't put your finger on exactly which kind of special they are to you, but excitement flutters in your chest as you watch them onstage, all comically oversized headphones and computer equipment you were never cool enough to comprehend.

You sway to the music- you're not skilled enough to dance at shows, but just standing there seems awkward.

The show goes on pleasantly- monsters are far less shove-y than humans at concerts, it seems. Like every show you go to, before you know it, it’s over.

While less shovey, the crowd still storms the stage afterwards in the hopes of brushing their fingers, wings, or tentacles against Mettaton. You find yourself gradually nudged to the side, which is okay, because you’re shoved to the side of the stage which Naps occupied.

“Hey!” You cry and wave at the ghost who is warily watching Mettaton kiss every single hand offered to him. Naps- Napstablook- turns at the sound of your voice and hops. They make their way over to you.

“You did great!” You exclaim, hugging their lower body, as the stage made them considerably taller than you.

“you came... “ they say, eyes glittering with unspent tears.

“Heck yeah!” You chirp, leaning against the stage. “Mettaton invited me. You coulda told me about this.”

“i didn’t think you would come…”

“Dude,” you say. “Of course I’d come!”

“...r-really?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” You grin, hoping it’s more reassuring and less manic, then glance over to Mettaton, who is wallowing in fangirl affection.

Mettaton’s eye catches yours. “Oh, you darlings go have fun,” he says. “I don’t mind staying here and continuing to be the center of attention.”

At least he owns up to it.

You turn back to Naps. “Shall we?” you ask.

“oh..okay..” Naps says.

“Mettaton says we should have fun,” you say. “Is there anywhere you want to go?”

Naps makes a nodding sort of motion. “i have an idea…”


	9. Adrien Brody. Adrien Brody. A-A-Adrien Brody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys I hope you all had a good weekend. I spent mine buying California Raisins toys.  
> <3

"Your idea of a fun place to go was home." You say, leaning against the doorway of Naps' apartment-slash-snail-farm, trying to keep your voice even. You weren't disappointed, but you still felt this ghost required a gentle hand.

“it’s a fun place to be…” Naps says.

For having no actual body, Naps sure was a homebody.

You can relate.

“It is,” you agree, stretching your arms as you meander into the apartment. Naps lingers behind you. As you reach the far wall of the living room, you spin on your heel to face Naps.

“You were real good tonight,” you say. “You’re always good, but,” Pause. Gesture. Please, say something, I don’t know how to finish this sentence.

“thanks…” Naps says, then tilts their face away, shyly. “i was real nervous…”

“Well, I don’t think anybody could tell.” You say. “You looked like you were having a pretty good time.”

“they were probably too busy looking at mettaton to notice me being nervous…” Naps says, then smiles fondly at their own mention of Mettaton.

You laugh a little. “I’ll have you know, not once did I look at Mettaton.”

“o-oh...don’t say that…” Naps says. “i’ll get even more nervous…”

You’re half-perched on a windowsill now, slouched to better meet Naps’ preferred height. “I was pretty much there to see you, dude.” You pause. “How did you meet Mettaton, anyway?”

“oh…” Naps says. “mettaton is my cousin....”

“Oh, cool!” you say. How are a robot and a ghost cousins? You want to ask, but wonder if it’s one of those potentially culturally insensitive things. You’ve met a total of two monster families now- one of which that matched (skeletons!) and, now, one that didn’t. Maybe somewhere along the line, a ghost married a robot and they’re cousins by marriage.

You’ve spent so much time pondering monster family dynamics that there is a silence apparently too awkward for even Naps.  “hey...do you want to play a game…” they ask.

While there are numerous venues to consume various media scattered around the living room, there are no game consoles in sight. Despite this, you say “Sure.”

Monsters love puzzles, right? Is that a thing? Or is it a weird cultural stereotype that might come off as offensive if you vocalize it?

“okay…” Naps says. “can you go sit with the snails while i get it ready…”

“All right,” you say, transferring to the impromptu snail farm. You sit down in the centre of the three snail receptacles. Naps closes the door behind you.

Okay.

You sneak a quick peek at your phone to find a handful of text messages from your sister:

> **i’m too lazy to paste a cute text emoticon in here but uhhhhhhhh. skeletons**
> 
> **i don’t know what’s going on i feel like an unwilling participant in a weird improv skit**
> 
> **YOU LEFT THE FROZEN MEAT OUT YOU JAG**
> 
> **  
>    
>  **

Well, oops.

You hastily send your sister what you think is “sorry” and three emoji hearts, but is in actuality “sorta”, thanks to mislaid thumbs and autocorrect, and three emoji tomatoes, which really do look like emoji hearts if you aren’t fully paying attention.

Your sister, being your sister, completely understands.

“ok…...you can come out now…” Naps’ voice echoes from the other side of the door.

You cautiously open the door and peek out to find a long, narrow tarp has been laid down the hall. Brightly coloured electrical tape marks “START” and “FINISH” at either end of the tarp.

“All right...what’s this?” You ask.

“this...” Naps says, looking almost mischievous, an expression you never imagined you’d see on them, “is...thundersnail.”

“Thundersnail,” you repeat.

“it’s how we made money back at the farm…” Naps says. “by ‘we’ i mean me and the snails, mostly…”

“Oh,” You say, turning your head to take in the full length of the tarp once more. “They...race?”

Naps is herding primary coloured snails on to the racetrack. “normally i would charge 10g… but you kind of work here… so we can just have fun…”

You nod. “Fair. I don’t carry monster cash anyway.”

“usually, you win if the yellow snail wins,” Naps says. “is that okay?”

You cock your head, evaluating the three snails, then gently extend your hand to the red one. “No,” you say. “She was the one who first brought me into your apartment. So I pick her.”

“good choice,” Naps says, then lines all three snails up at the START. “cheer her on, but don’t cheer too hard, the high expectations might upset her…”

You had never anticipated a snail race to be quite so exciting. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from a long day of assorted work errands and then attending a surprise concert. Maybe, and more likely, it’s the company. Napstablook loves these snails with all of their sad little heart, and you can’t help but love them just as much.

While Yellow is definitely a lightweight, Red and Blue are evenly matched in terms of speed.

In the end, Red wins, and you imagine it is because you are repeatedly shouting “KICK HIS SLIME ASS RED GETIT”

Yellow is only halfway down the tarp when Red wins, so Yellow decides to take a nap right where they are. Fair.

“YESSSS!” You shout at your snail’s success.

“you won,” Naps says.

“Heck yea!” You shout, entirely too pumped up over snail racing. “What do I win?”

“hmm….” Naps ponders for a moment, and bends their form slightly, giving the appearance of cocking their head. “...you get to see my favourite trick…”

You watch intently, entirely unsure of what is going on.

Naps’ face scrunches up and their eyes well up with tears. You’re concerned and reach a hand out to console them, but are stopped when you realize the tears are flying upwards.

Take that, physics.

The tears are flying upwards, and settling atop Naps’ head, assembling themselves in the shape of… a top hat.

“do you like it…” Naps says. “i call it ‘dapper blook’.”

You can’t help but burst out in joyful laughter at the unexpected wonder of “Dapper Blook”. “Oh my god, Naps, that’s amazing.” You say.

Naps’ eyes well up with the kind of tears that are not to be used as a prop and they smile. “i’m glad…” they say.


	10. Tilda Swinton, or, a not-so-grand-finale.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You smooch a ghost.

 

You’ll never vocalize this, but it feels like maybe you are dating a ghost.

You've fallen into a routine with them: under the guise of "helping out with the snail farm", you visit multiple nights a week and munch popato chisps (the flavours you have tried are: fancy snail, unfancy snail "in case you're feelin' casual....", and cool ranch.) You talk, listen to music, generally enjoy each other's company and, yes, tend to snails.

Tonight, netflix and chill is very unchill as you watch The Grand Budapest Hotel with Naps and they cry no less than three times- Wes Anderson apparently really gets to them. (Everything really gets to them.)

Your pleather jacket has some awesome nasty warps on its sleeves now from taking the brunt of their acid rain tears.

You sit on the floor to watch movies- they still don't even have an office chair for their computer desk- and they hover beside you until they sob and you pull their soft mass of ectoplasm close.

"If you liked that," you say after The Grand Budapest Hotel, cringing as you stand up, because, wow, the floor hurts your ass, "Just wait 'til I bring over The Life Aquatic." You hope they'll like it enough that for Halloween they'll cosplay members of Team Zissou with you.

All they'd be able to wear is the red toque, but it's a really cute idea to you, even if all you'll probably do for Halloween is sit inside and feed snails and consume media.

"Bill Murray, he's, like, so good in it." Maybe you should drop the subject of Bill Murray before you start rambling about Ghostbusters. That may not go over well.

"can you bring it tomorrow?" Naps asks.

"Of course I can." You say. "It's a date."

Yikes.

You just _said_ those words.

 

You sit in your bed that night, holding your worn, beloved copy of The Life Aquatic, hoping Naps will like it. Hoping you won’t cry too hard at the scenes that always make you cry. Hoping your ass won’t go too numb this time.

You really should get a pillow.

You fall asleep that night ungracefully snoring, with your well-loved DVD of The Life Aquatic resting on your chest.

 

The next evening, you knock on the door across the way, as you’ve grown accustomed to.

Your knock is met with a pause and then a nervous, wavering “.................................come in…”

“Naps?” You ask, opening the door. “Y’okay?”

On the other side of the door, you find Naps more elevated than usual, their semi-opaque form blurring your line of sight into the apartment. They’re so elevated, you’re pretty much face to face.

You feel the sudden impulse to kiss them, but shove it down into the mental box where all of your other intrusive thoughts live. You're not really sure if they're _made_ for kissing- their mouth looks like a bracket, like the latter half of a classic emoticon.

:)

“Hey,” you say, then hold up your copy of The Life Aquatic. “Movie time?”

Naps stares and does not move.

“...i got you something……” they say, then turn around and lead you into the apartment. You follow.

In the middle of the living room sits a large dog bed.

It's pink and covered in cartoon bones and pawprints. It looks soft and cushy, with raised edges on three sides. Like a little dog couch. You kneel down and set your hand on it, testing the waters. Yes, soft and cushy.

"the dog at the furniture store said it's the best seat they have..." Naps says, flitting about nervously. 

There seems to be a very large population of dog-monsters, so you find it unsurprising that a dog works at the furniture store.

"and... and..." Naps looks down, pre-empting dejectedness.

"Naps," you say, then pause to consider the extent of sentimentality you're comfortable babbling.

You feel like this is a pretty big gesture from them, They seem to have unlived a lonely unlife before you started consistently intruding. Accepting someone else in their life to the extent of buying furniture for them feels... _big_.

"Naps," you say again, wiping away a lone tear. Oh, _there's_ the sentimentality. "I love it."

Naps huffs, exhaling apprehension. You don't think they actually breathe, it's mostly for show.

You settle into your dog bed, Naps finding their way beside you. The usual, except now you have something to sit on.

As Steve Zissou vows revenge against a shark on the TV screen (Naps is already enthralled and glossy-eyed), you gradually lean closer and closer to Naps, and cautiously, tentatively lay a kiss on their soft, ectoplasmic forehead.

"...wow..." Naps says.

You are most definitely dating a ghost.

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.  
> This is it, I guess.  
> It broke my heart to read every comment excited for more, but, there's only so much low-key, tentative ghost cuteness one can muster up before it gets old or weird, you know?  
> Thank you so SO much for reading, everyone. This has been one hell of an experience for me and the amazingly warm reception has meant the WORLD to me. (I was so nervous to post my first chapter that I filled out the page entirely, then made my sister hit "submit" while I was in the bathroom.)  
> I've got some other stuff in the works that I hope you all can enjoy as well, and if I ever want to make ghost again, I will pop it in here. <3  
> THANK YOU from the bottom of my lil rascal heart. <3


End file.
